


if you feel like falling down (i'll carry you home)

by void_fish



Series: sub dubi [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: D/s, Double Penetration, Rope Bondage, possible dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 09:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10357419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/pseuds/void_fish
Summary: "Brandon knows his situation is-- unusual. It wasn’t like this in New York, but. It’s how it is here, and he likes it."ORTeam Sub Brandon Dubinsky





	

**Author's Note:**

> ...twitter made me do it.

**December 22, CBJ 7, PIT 1**

It starts like it always does with Saader. Brandon’s bugging Hartsy, facewashing him while he’s trying to untie one of his skates, and Saader just comes up behind him and squeezes his shoulder, hard.

‘Don’t be a dick,’ Saader says, and there’s barely any inflection in his voice, but Brandon knows where this is going anyway.

He grins, big and wide and shit-eating, and says, ‘Make me.’

Saader gives him a smile in return, wonky and genuine. He’s squeezing tight enough that Brandon’s probably going to bruise now. ‘Okay,’ he says, and lets go.

He’s looking at Brandon with this-- expression. Brandon can’t figure it out, but something like excitement is churning in his gut. Saader wanders back to his own stall to finish getting undressed. Hartsy swats Brandon on the ass and goes back to untying his skates, muttering darkly.

-

Brandon knows his situation is-- unusual. It wasn’t like this in New York, but. It’s how it is here, and he likes it.

Saader turns up at his apartment after the game and invites himself in. He’s still wearing his suit, charcoal grey with a cream shirt and a dark purple tie. Brandon’s wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt with holes in both armpits.

‘Am I underdressed or are you overdressed?’ he asks. Saader huffs out a short laugh and shrugs out of his overcoat, hanging it on the coatrack in the entryway, toeing his shoes off and leaving them lined up neatly.

‘Where do you want it?’ Saader asks, glancing down the hallway to Brandon’s bedroom.

Brandon’s kind of jittery now, doesn’t really care. ‘Wherever,’ he says. ‘You’re definitely overdressed.’

Saader ignores him, heads for the living room.

‘You should get a bottle of water,’ he says, moving the couch cushions around. ‘For later.’

‘Yeah?’ Brandon asks, smirking. ‘What you gonna do to me, Saader?’

Saader says nothing again, takes the blanket off of the back of the couch and folds it a few times before placing it on the floor.

Brandon knows exactly how this goes. He rocks on his heels and stands in the doorway while Saader settles himself on the couch, legs spread wide enough for Brandon to fit between them.

‘Are you gonna fight me, Dubi?’ Saader asks, when Brandon doesn’t come over immediately.

Brandon shrugs. ‘Maybe a little.’ He grins. ‘More fun that way, you know?’

Saader hums. He leans back on the couch, throws both arms over the back of it. ‘You’re really gonna make me come all the way over there?’

‘Yep,’ Brandon says.

He’s already starting to get hard, the anticipation of it making him chub up in his shorts. This is his favourite part, when Saader does this, when he pretends like he’s not gonna force Brandon to his knees.

‘Water,’ Saader says, nodding at the kitchen.

Brandon goes for the water, sets it down on the coffee table, and then steps back again.

Saader sighs, like Brandon’s being inconvenient, and stands up. Brandon’s smile gets bigger. ‘Hi,’ he says.

Saader wraps a hand around the back of his neck, thumb digging into the base of his skull. ‘You had a good game tonight,’ he says. ‘Two points.’

Brandon smirks, smug. ‘Yep.’

‘You’re really gonna ruin your reward by being a brat?’

Brandon shrugs. ‘The way I see it, I’m either gonna get my reward, or you’re gonna punish me for mouthing off.’ He grins. ‘I’m happy with both of these options.’

Saader squeezes, and Brandon falls quiet. His dick twitches in his pants.

‘Maybe your punishment will be to sit quietly all evening without me touching you,’ Saader says, leaning in a little, dropping his voice.

Brandon shivers. They’ve done that before, when Brandon’s gone too far, been too much of an asshole, and Saader’s sat him on one of his kitchen stools, hands bound behind his back, ankles lashed to the legs of the stool, and left him in the middle of the living room for an hour, while he watched an episode of Game of Thrones. Brandon hadn’t gotten to come at all that night.

‘So,’ Saader says, and his thumb is making small circles at the back of Brandon’s neck, ‘Are you gonna kneel, or are you gonna fight me?’

There’s a pause. ‘Kneel,’ Brandon says, and gets a smile from Saader.

‘Good,’ he says, and returns to his seat on the couch, legs wide, feet planted. The fabric of his pants strains against his thighs.

Brandon drags the heel of his hand over his erection before heading for the couch.

‘Hands off, Dub,’ Saader says. ‘You know the rules.’

Brandon sticks his tongue out at him, but puts his hands behind his back, grabbing one wrist with the other hand.

Dropping to his knees is a little awkward like this, but he’s had practice. He drops to one knee, then the other, and shuffles in between the vee of Saader’s legs.

Saader puts a hand on Brandon’s hair immediately, combs through the still damp strands to scratch at his scalp. Brandon’s eyes half-close, and he hums.

‘Feels good, huh?’ Saader murmurs. Brandon leans into the touch, and nods. ‘You played real good tonight, Brandon,’ he says, using his free hand to pop the button on his pants.

Brandon nods. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I did.’

‘Always so cocky,’ Saader says, tugging on his zipper. His other hand has stopped combing through Brandon’s hair and is gripping the loose strands at the back of his head tight, pulling a little, holding Brandon’s head still.

‘You’d be weirded out if I wasn’t,’ Brandon says, letting Saader tilt his head back.

Saader hums, and works his cock out of his underwear. It’s the only exposed part of him; he hasn’t even taken his suit jacket off.

He jacks his dick a couple of times until there’s a bead of precome on the tip, and then he tugs Brandon in closer, pulling him off of his heels until the only things keeping him balanced are Saader’s hand in his hair, and his chest pressed against the edge of the couch. He keeps his hands behind his back though, and waits for Saader to shift, tilting his hips until his dick is hovering in front of Brandon’s lips.

‘Gonna fuck your face, okay?’ Saader asks. ‘You know what to do if you need me to stop.’

He loosens his grip in Brandon’s hair enough for Brandon to nod, catching the tip of Saader’s cock with his lower lip, smearing the pre-come down the head.

Saader never ties his hands if they do this. They worked out a system where Brandon keeps his hands behind his back by himself, and if he needs Saader to stop while his mouth is full, he just grabs his ankle and squeezes, or pushes him away, or-- Brandon’s never done it, but. He likes that Saader insisted on it.

Brandon opens his mouth when Saader wraps a hand around the base of his dick and guides it in, feeds it to Brandon slowly.

Brandon blows a breath out through his nose when the weight of it hits his tongue. Saader’s not huge, but he’s big enough that he hits the back of Brandon’s throat, and Brandon coughs, has to work his throat, fight the gag reflex.

‘You’re okay,’ Saader says, stilling his hips. ‘Take a breath.’

Brandon can feel his nostrils flaring, but he relaxes his throat, hollows his cheeks.

Saader’s thrusts are short to begin with, slow and small to get Brandon used to it. There’s a not insignificant amount of saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth, but Saader likes it messy, so. Brandon’s not embarrassed.

The thrusts get longer, faster, a little rougher. Saader’s hands are gripping his hair tight enough to hurt now. Brandon doesn’t know how long Saader’s going to last, but his jaw is already aching a little. He’s holding his wrist hard enough that he can feel the joint grinding. There’ll be a mark there, probably.

The rougher Saader gets, the calmer Brandon feels. It’s always been like this, being forced to his knees and having a dick in his mouth just makes him feel grounded. He did it in New York, first with Arty, then with Hank, but it was never like this.

When Saader comes down his throat, it’s unexpected, but not unwelcome. Brandon coughs through it, dribbles a mess of saliva and come down his chin, but when Saader pulls his dick out, he swipes through the mess with his thumb.

‘You good?’

Brandon nods.

‘Good,’ he says, leans down and kisses him.

Brandon feels kind of fuzzy when Saader coaxes him to his feet. There’s an ache in his dick and he realises he hasn’t come yet. Brandon shoves him onto the couch lightly, straddles his hips and shoves his hand down Brandon’s shorts, jerks him off without ceremony, until he’s curling into Saader and whining as he comes.

He lolls against the couch after, while Brandon gets a washcloth, coaxes him out of the shorts and into sweats, and gets the bottle of water down him. He leans against Saader when he joins him on the couch, lets Saader give him a lazy scalp massage.

‘You’re a good boy, huh?’ Saader murmurs against his temple.

Brandon hums, and leans into the touch.

‘Hey, don’t fall asleep,’ Saader says, nudging him. ‘I promised Cam I wouldn’t tire you out too much, he’ll be upset if you’re asleep before he gets here.’

Brandon thinks about Cam and smiles, lazy. ‘Okay,’ he mumbles. ‘Just gonn’ close my eyes. For second. Not sleeping.’

Saader laughs, gently. ‘I’ll wake you up when he gets here, huh?’

‘Mm,’ Brandon says, nestling his head on Saader’s shoulder.

-

**January 3rd, WSH 5, CBJ 0**

Brandon breaks his stick in the hallway outside the locker room. He snaps it over his knee, and then slams one of the pieces against the doorway until it breaks again. His helmet hits the wall behind his stall and bounces to the floor.

‘Fuck,’ he says, and sits down in his stall, heavy.

He won’t meet anyone’s eye as he gets showered and dressed. Torts comes into the room, tells them they should be proud of what they achieved.

‘Sixteen wins in a row, gentlemen,’ he says. ‘No one can take that from this room.’

Brandon wants to punch through the wall. He was on the ice for _four_ goals. He had two, maybe three shots. He should have been _better_.

He sits in his stall after tying his shoes, listens to the guys shuffle out in twos and threes. If anyone looks at him, he wouldn’t know. He’s staring at his helmet, still on the floor.

Someone stops, stoops to pick it up. It’s Jack. He stands back up, places it gently in Brandon’s stall for him, and holds out a hand.

‘Come on, Dubi. I’ll give you a ride.’

‘I don’t need a ride,’ Brandon says. ‘I can see my apartment from the arena.’

‘Nope,’ Jack says, and he’s trying to sound cheerful, but when Brandon really looks at him, he looks like Brandon feels. He had a better game than Brandon, but so did most of the team. ‘Nice try, though.’

-

Brandon’s quiet in the car. He’s thinking about the 4-0 goal, the one that really took all the life out of the bench. He lost his assignment at the blue line, and-- that was that.

‘Stop thinking so loud,’ Jack says. ‘If you have to wallow, do it out loud, so I can call you an idiot for it.’

Brandon scowls at him, but stays quiet.

Jack takes Brandon back to his own apartment, leaves him in the kitchen staring down a glass of water.

‘Wanna talk about the game?’ Jack asks, coming back in the room in a soft looking hoody.

‘No,’ Brandon says, automatically. Jack hums, and gets himself a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge. He sits down at the island and waits.

‘I should have scored tonight,’ Brandon says, eventually. Jack cracks the lid on his Gatorade.

‘We all should have,’ Jack says. ‘Games like that happen.’

‘Fuck,’ Brandon says, and then, louder, ‘ _Fuck._ ’

Almost everyone on the team keeps a blanket or a pillow specifically for kneeling. Brandon knows that Jack keeps his under the couch.

He leaves the kitchen without a word, heads for the couch and is on his knees on the pillow before Jack can even leave the kitchen.

‘That’s what you want?’ Jack asks, from the doorway.

Brandon nods. He can feel all this pressure building up in him as soon as his knees hit the ground, doesn’t trust himself to speak evenly.

‘Okay,’ Jack says, and disappears back into the kitchen. He comes back with his purple Gatorade and another unopened bottle, this one yellow.

‘You don’t like yellow,’ Brandon says, surprised.

‘You do, though,’ Jack says. ‘I hide it, for special occasions. Most of the team does.’

‘--Oh,’ Brandon says.

‘You didn’t know that?’

Brandon shrugs. ‘Didn’t think about it,’ he says.

Objectively, Brandon knows that the Blue Jackets have a dom-sub dynamic unlike almost every other team in the NHL. It’s what happens when a team acquires too many doms, or not enough subs. He’s not the only one on the team that subs, but he’s the one of the only natural subs since they traded Joey, and-- it makes for some interesting conversations with newcomers.

Jack sets the bottles down on the table next to the couch, and sits. Brandon can feel the urge to talk bubbling up in his chest again, and he takes a slow breath, leaning his cheek on the outside of Jack’s thigh. The material of his sweatpants is soft and thin. It helps, weirdly.

Jack combs through Brandon’s hair gently, and says nothing.

Brandon’s just starting to drift when Jack says, ‘Your hair is so soft when you don’t drown it with hair gel every time you leave the house.’

Brandon scoffs at him, pulling a face. Jack just laughs, and keeps stroking.

Brandon doesn’t realise his eyes have closed until Jack tugs on his hair lightly. ‘You wanna go to bed?’ he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Brandon mumbles something, making Jack smile, and he takes his hands out of Brandon’s hair, coaxing him to his feet.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been kneeling, but both his knees crack when he stands, and there’s not quite so much tension in his shoulders. He rolls his neck until it pops, and follows Jack down the hallway to his room.

The first time he knelt for Jack, he didn’t know kneeling could be like this. Jack is endlessly patient, and though he throws his weight around on the ice, in the locker room, he’s never harsh with Brandon. It took a long time for Brandon to realise that Jack just wasn’t going to react to him, no matter what he said. It’s-- nice, sometimes, using Jack as a wall that he can throw everything at and nothing will bounce back, but this is good too, Brandon thinks, stripping to his underwear and sliding into the sheets.

When Brandon was a kid, he couldn’t sleep unless he had this huge, heavy quilt draped over him. Now he’s older, he has a weighted blanket that he uses sometimes at home, but here, he just gets Jack.

‘I’m not too heavy?’ Jack asks, like he does every time, resting his chin in the dip of Brandon’s collarbone.

Brandon shakes his head. It’s a little hard to breathe, but he likes it. It’s comforting, and Jack never complains about Brandon sticking his cold hands up the back of his shirt.

‘Next game,’ Brandon says, and then gets interrupted by his own yawn.

Jack wrinkles his nose. ‘Gross, dude, don’t yawn in my face.’ He jabs his fingers into Brandon’s ribs lightly, but Brandon barely moves. ‘Yeah, Dubs. Next game.’

-

Brandon wakes up with morning wood and Jack’s lips on his neck.

‘Good morning,’ Jack says, kissing his way up to just below Brandon’s ear, that soft spot that makes his knees a little weak.

Brandon rocks his hips back a little without really meaning to, and bumps Jack’s erection. He makes a sound and bites Brandon’s neck gently.

‘Yeah?’ Brandon asks, twisting a little so Jack can get a better angle.

‘If you want to,’ Jack says, palming Brandon’s hip.

Jack’s bedroom has thin curtains covering huge windows, and there’s bright, early morning sun streaming through them. It’s making the whole bed warm, and when Brandon rolls half onto his belly, crooking one leg so Jack can finger him open, he’s lying right in the sunbeam from the gap in the curtains.

Sex with Jack is always slow and easy. He doesn’t use it as a reward, or as a release, like some of the other guys Brandon subs for. It just-- is what it is.

Jack has soft hands. In any other situation, Brandon would chirp him about them, about whether he puts lotion or something on them, because they always feel silky smooth when they’re sliding over his skin like they are now.

The lube is cool from where it’s been hidden in a drawer, away from the sun, but Brandon doesn’t mind. Jack takes his time with the first finger, rubbing over Brandon’s rim until it’s wet with lube and twitching a little before he pushes inside with his middle finger, nudging his thumb up behind Brandon’s balls, just enough pressure to make him squirm.

Jack shushes him. His other hand is splayed on the small of Brandon’s back.

One finger turns into two, and if Brandon wasn’t hard before, he is now, erection straining against the sheets. Jack’s hand is perfectly placed to keep Brandon’s hips flat against the mattress, no way of getting any leverage to rub off on them.

Brandon feels kind of fuzzy when Jack adds the second finger, like he’s already in that headspace where everything is distant and the only thing that matters is the hands on his skin and the stretch in his ass. He’s never been with anyone that can put him down as easily as Jack does. He reminds Brandon a little of when he would sub for Hank in New York.

Jack fucks him with slow, easy, rolling thrusts. He pulls Brandon onto his side and pushes until one of his knees is touching his chest so he can get the right angle.

‘Yeah,’ Brandon breathes when Jack fucks into him just right. ‘Yeah, Jack, there.’

‘Yeah?’ Jack breathes, nosing at his earlobe. The hand that isn’t holding Brandon’s thigh steady is playing with his cockhead, thumbing at the slit where he’s starting to leak.

Brandon never really gets desperate, knows he can come whenever he wants, so he just sinks into it, enjoys it, lets Jack roll into him until his orgasm is eased out of him like a wave.

‘There you go,’ Jack says, stroking him through it steadily. ‘I got you.’

Brandon rolls onto his belly when Jack eases out of him, managing to pull some of the sheets with him so he doesn’t roll into the wet spot.

‘Feel better?’ Jack asks, rolling with him and flopping down next to him, face inches away. Brandon nods. ‘Less murderous?’

Brandon pulls a face, but nods again. Jack grins, and reaches up to try and flatten Brandon’s bedhead. ‘You want some breakfast, or do you wanna sleep more?’

Brandon considers it for a second, until his stomach rumbles. Jack laughs. ‘I’ll make pancakes,’ he says. ‘You gotta come help though, I’m not letting your lazy ass lie around while I bring you breakfast in bed.’

Brandon whines, buries his face in the sheets, and gets a whack on his bare ass for his trouble.

From the floor, probably in his pants pocket, his phone chimes.

‘Text your boyfriend back,’ Jack says, like he knows who’s texting before Brandon does. ‘Then come help with breakfast.’

-

**January 17th, CBJ 4, CAR 1**

‘Two goals,’ Will says, sitting down in the stall next to Brandon’s. ‘Pretty good game, right, Alex?’

Wenny sits down on his other side, smirking. ‘Decent,’ he says. He puts a hand on Brandon’s thigh, too high up to be buddies. ‘What kind of reward would be suitable for a two goal game, do you think?’

Brandon’s tie is loose around his neck. Will gathers the ends up and tugs gently, smirking. ‘I have some ideas.’

Brandon’s skin is still hot from the shower, but he feels his face heat up, and he has to fight back a shudder.

‘Yours or mine?’ he asks, proud of the way his voice stays steady.

Will hums. ‘Yours,’ he says. ‘Wait for us in your room.’ He leans in, until his hair is tickling Brandon’s cheek. ‘Naked,’ he whispers, and _that_ makes Brandon shiver.

Wenny squeezes his thigh lightly, gives him a smile that Brandon returns. ‘It’s gonna be really good,’ he promises, and then leaves Brandon to try and tie his tie with slightly shaking hands.

-

Brandon doesn’t go home with the Swedes often, they’re pretty disgustingly in love with each other, and that’s fine, Brandon can go to literally anyone else on the team, but every time he does go home with them, it’s always way more intense than he thinks it could be.

Wenny’s not a natural dom, doesn’t really have a dynamic the way Brandon and Will do, but he’s handsome and has these long fingers that drive Brandon to distraction whenever they hook up, and he talks to Brandon in low, rumbling Swedish even though he can’t understand it. Brandon doesn’t know why it works for him, but it does, makes heat pool in his gut. Sometimes he looks at Wenny and Will and doesn’t understand how they get anything done, because he can’t stop himself from falling into subspace as soon as they turn their attention to him.

He gets a bottle of water from the fridge when he gets to his apartment, sheds his jacket and tie and unbuttons his shirt, stands by the sink to drink half of it in one long swallow. They’re probably going to go home and get changed first, so he has some time.

When the water’s gone, he heads for his room, shrugging his shirt off of his shoulders and draping it over the open dresser drawer. His undershirt goes in the laundry hamper, as do his socks. He takes the time to hang his pants up, and then he’s just standing in his underwear.

He’s not hard, but getting there, his dick definitely interested in what’s about to happen, and it bobs a little when he steps out of his briefs. He wasn’t told not to, so he jacks it a couple of times, looking at his bed. He isn’t sure how they’re going to want him.

When he hears the front door open, he’s kneeling in the middle of the bed, head ducked, hands tucked loosely in his lap. He can hear them talking quietly in Swedish, hears the fridge open and close, but he keeps his head down. The bedroom door is open, he knows they can see him from where they are, but they haven’t acknowledged him yet.

‘Hey Dubi,’ Wenny says eventually, and Brandon looks up. He’s leaning against the doorframe in a long sleeved tee and jeans, ballcap shoved backwards over his hair. He’s giving Brandon that lazy smirk again, and it sends something warm through his belly. ‘Will’s just putting stuff away. We brought dinner.’

‘Oh,’ Brandon says, surprised.

‘We know how good you are at looking after yourself,’ Will says, appearing behind Wenny. ‘You know, peanut butter isn’t actually supposed to live in the fridge. Also, I threw away something that I think used to be apples.’

‘Pears,’ Brandon says. ’I-- don’t remember when I bought them.’

‘You’re a mess,’ Will says. ‘That’s why we brought dinner.’

‘That’s for after, though,’ Wenny says, taking his hat off and tossing it on top of Brandon’s dresser. His hair is perfect underneath it. Brandon doesn’t _understand_. ‘You know,’ he says, conversational, as he climbs on the bed, kneewalks to in front of Brandon. ‘Every time we do this, I’m surprised that you do what you’re told.’

‘That’s how this works,’ Brandon says.

‘We’ve heard some stories,’ Will says. He’s wearing a pale grey button up, and he starts unbuttoning it on his way to the bed. ‘Apparently you’re not always this well behaved.’

Brandon shrugs. ‘I go to certain guys if I need to mouth off.’

‘Not for us though?’ Wenny asks. ‘Aww, Dubi.’

Brandon shrugs, a little embarrassed suddenly. ‘I mean-- I can mouth off if you want. I just don’t need to right now.’

‘No,’ Will says. ‘I like you like this, quiet and well behaved. Such a good sub for us, right, Alex?’

Wenny nods. He reaches out and thumbs at Brandon’s lower lip. Brandon lets his jaw fall open, sucks the digit into his mouth gently. ‘So good,’ he murmurs, pressing his thumb against Brandon’s tongue. He swaps the thumb for three fingers, and Brandon sucks on them easily, letting his eyes slide half-shut.

‘We were thinking we’d both fuck you,’ Wenny says, casually. Brandon nods; they usually do.

‘At the same time,’ Will adds, and Brandon’s eyes fly open.

‘That’s new,’ he says, around Wenny’s fingers, and then repeats himself when the fingers are withdrawn.

Will smirks. ‘We’ve been wanting to try it for a while. We know how much you like getting fucked, so. We figured it would be a good reward.’

‘I-- yeah,’ Brandon says. ‘Yes.’

Wenny’s smile gets even bigger, a little less dirty and a little more genuine. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, I-- I want that,’ Brandon says.

‘Perfect,’ Will says, shrugs his shirt off of his shoulders.

Brandon ends up on his knees, straddling Wenny’s hips. Will’s in the bathroom, rattling around for the lube, and Wenny’s kissing him, lazy, like they have all the time in the world.

Wenny has both hands on Brandon’s ass, blunt fingernails digging in, spreading him just the tiniest bit. Brandon’s allowed to touch, so he is, thumbs pressed against the lobes of Wenny’s ears, fingers splayed up the side of his neck, holding him steady so he can lick into his mouth.

Will’s warmed the lube up for him by the time he’s sliding a finger into Brandon, crooking it just a little. Brandon makes a sound, but it’s swallowed up by Wenny’s mouth.

One of Will’s hands rests on the small of his back, steadying him. Brandon feels-- not trapped, but-- pinned. Wenny’s stronger than he looks, holding him still, and Will’s hand is pushing him, keeping him just off balance. All his weight is bearing down onto Wenny.

He tries to arch his back, push against Will when he adds a second finger, but he can’t get the leverage, and he whimpers.

‘Shhh,’ Wenny says, into the kiss. ‘You’re doing so good, B.’

‘So good,’ Will says, pumping his fingers in and out slowly. ‘Forgot how good you felt.’

Wenny’s hands tighten on him, spread him a little wider when Will adds a third finger, drizzles more lube. Brandon’s hips are starting to move, trying to fuck himself on Will’s hand. Wenny smacks him lightly.

‘Stop that,’ he says, and Brandon does, thighs shaking a little with the effort of holding still.

Brandon’s taken four of Will’s fingers before, but it was a struggle; Will has long, thick fingers, thicker than anyone else on the team. He keens when Will eases the fourth in this time, rocking on them.

‘Gotta make sure you’re stretched,’ Will says, thumb of his free hand making circles on his bare skin. ‘Don’t wanna hurt you, B.’

Brandon breaks the kiss off, pressing his forehead to Wenny’s. He’s sweating, hair falling over his forehead, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

‘Hurts,’ he says, small, and Wenny lets go of his ass to run a hand up and down his spine, soothing.

‘Bad hurt?’ Will asks, fingers stilling.

It takes Brandon a long second to remember how to shake his head. ‘No,’ he says, and Wenny kisses his temple, gentle. ‘Just-- need a minute.’

They sit there while Brandon counts his breaths, and tries not to clench around Will’s hand. Slowly, slowly, he adjusts.

‘Okay,’ he says, rocking his hips the tiniest bit. ‘I-- I’m okay.’

Will eases his fingers out slowly, pushes them back in. ‘He’s ready,’ he says to Wenny.

Wenny coaxes Brandon down onto his cock inch by inch. He’s not as big as Will’s fingers, but he’s big enough, and Brandon’s breaths are uneven by the time he’s fully seated, ass snug against his hips.

His back is hunched, forehead on Wenny’s collarbone while he breathes.

‘You ready for another?’ Will asks. He’s tracing the stretched out muscle with the tip of his index finger.

‘Yeah,’ Brandon breathes. He screws his eyes shut as Will works his pinky finger in next to Wenny’s dick. Wenny’s breathing about as hard as Brandon is, and he can feel the tension in his thighs, his abs, to stay still.

None of them say much for the next couple of minutes, beyond the short, punchy breaths of Brandon as he tries to relax, tries to loosen up enough to let Will get a second finger in.

‘I got you,’ Will says, as he pushes up to the first knuckle, and Brandon makes a high pitched, pained sound. Wenny shushes him, combs through his hair until it’s pushed out of his face.

‘I’m okay,’ Brandon says, panting a little. ‘Just a lot.’

It’s a slow, slow process, and there are tears beading along his lashes when Will’s got three fingers flush against Wenny’s cock. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt fuller.

‘I can do it,’ Brandon half-sobs, when Will eases his fingers out. ‘I can, I just-- you have to do it now, Will, please.’

There’s a mess of slick between him and Wenny, precome and sweat and lube all mixed together, and when Brandon rocks his hips, he rubs his cockhead against Wenny’s abs.

‘Okay,’ Will says. His accent gets thicker when he’s turned on, his voice deeper. ‘You gotta--’ He positions Brandon so he’s leaning further forward, ass as high in the air as he can get without Wenny slipping out of him. ‘You good?’ he asks, kissing his shoulder.

Brandon nods, forehead on Wenny’s chest, eyes shut. ‘Yeah, Will, yeah. I’m good.’

Will eases in so slowly Brandon thinks he might die. He lets out a shallow breath and tilts his hips the tiniest bit. He can feel the cocks inside him shifting against one another, and Wenny makes a soft, bitten-off sound. Will thrusts once, twice, so shallow it’s like he’s not even moving, and then Brandon’s coming all over Wenny’s chest before he even gets a chance to put his hand on his dick.

‘Holy shit,’ Wenny says, hoarse. ‘That was-- Can I keep fucking you?’

Brandon nods against his shoulder. It takes Wenny a couple of thrusts to get the angle right, to get any kind of rhythm, but it comes together, and Brandon’s oversensitised, and kind of sure, but he can feel Will’s hands tightening on his hips, can feel Wenny moving inside him. He knows Wenny’s going to come a split second before he does, feels his abs tense, and he loses his rhythm, hips juddering.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Wenny’s chanting in his ear, hips jumping up as he fucks his way through his own orgasm. Brandon thinks he blacks out for a second, comes back to himself as Will’s pulling out of him to jerk off all over his back. He’s slumped against Wenny’s chest, and he can already tell that he’s going to be a sticky, disgusting mess when he peels himself off, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.

‘I should score more goals,’ he says, when Wenny finally pulls out. There’s an uncomfortable leaking feeling, and the ache in his ass is only going to get worse, he knows, but he’s lying on Wenny’s chest and Will’s cleaning the come off his back and ass and thighs with a warm cloth.

‘More goals, more sex,’ Wenny agrees.

There’s a pleasantly heavy feeling in Brandon’s chest. It feels like when Jack falls asleep on him. He’s settled, content. When Will coaxes him onto his back so he can clean his stomach up, he goes easily, boneless. Will leans in to kiss his hip before swiping the cloth around his groin and dick before tossing it at the laundry basket in the corner.

‘So good for us,’ Wenny murmurs, reaching over to smooth his hair down. He wipes at the tear tracks on Brandon’s cheeks gently.

Will stands up, pulls his sweatpants back on, pulls his hair out of the tie to let it fall around his face. He says something in Swedish, leaning over to kiss Wenny quickly before heading out of the room.

‘He’s leaving?’ Brandon asks, watching the muscles of his bare back shift as he runs a hand through his hair on the way out.

‘Going to make dinner,’ Wenny says. ‘Call Cam, too.’

‘Mkay,’ Brandon mumbles. His eyelids feel heavy, all of a sudden.

-

He thinks he wakes up for food, has vague memories of Will heaving him into a sitting position and putting a fork in his hand. He doesn’t remember what it tasted like.

The second time he wakes up is because he hears the front door close. The room is dark around him, and he squints when the bedroom door opens, letting light from the hallway spill in. He can just see the silhouette of Cam in the doorway, and he smiles.

-

**January 19th, OTT 2, CBJ 0**

Brandon gets a game misconduct after the final buzzer, and he files off the ice with everyone else, but he can feel the anger roiling under his skin.

Everyone avoids him while they’re getting changed. He sits in his stall and seethes, hands flexing. He wants to put his fist through a wall. Fucking _Ottawa_.

When he looks up from ripping his skates off, Nick is staring at him, hard. Brandon curls his lip, and stands up to step out of his shorts. Nick stands up, walks over to him.

‘Andy is gonna take you home tonight,’ he says, quiet, when Brandon looks up at him again. Nick’s in bare feet, like him, and Brandon has an inch or so of height on him. He straightens up, tries to maximise that height.

Nick just tightens his jaw and folds his arms. ‘Don’t even try to pull that looming shit with me,’ he says. ‘That might work with some of the kids, but I’m too old for your shit, Dubinsky.’

‘I’m not going home with An--’

‘Andy is taking you home,’ Nick interrupts. He’s using his captain voice. Brandon thinks about arguing, but Nick says, ‘Dubi,’ in that tone again, and Brandon scowls, drops into his stall, doesn’t argue.

Josh is new to the team, new to the NHL. He’s a natural switch, and he tends to sub for the rookie doms more often than he does anything else, but he’s big and strong and sometimes Brandon needs to be pinned down. He’s taken Brandon home a couple of times this season already, but Brandon’s never felt this restless before.

‘I’m not kneeling for you,’ Brandon says, as Josh follows him home. It’s just starting to snow, and he can see his breath steaming out in front of him.

‘Okay,’ Josh says, using his long stride to catch up with him.

‘I mean it.’

Josh just pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts typing. Brandon scowls, and shoves his hands into his pockets.

‘You’re not coming inside,’ Brandon says, when they get to his apartment. It’s mostly posturing, and he knows Josh can see that.

Josh stops behind him, looming. Fuck, but he’s big. ‘You gonna leave me in the cold, Dubi?’

‘Go home, Andy,’ Brandon says, and opens his door. Josh muscles his way in anyway.

‘What the _fuck_?’ Brandon spits, shoving at him.

‘Gonna safeword?’ Josh asks, standing in Brandon’s open doorway. His arms are folded, and his feet are planted. It’s a far cry from the nervous first time dom that showed up at his apartment earlier this season to tell him that Nick said he should put Dubi down to see if he could.

(He could. Josh has strong hands and carries himself like he’s older than he is. He pinned Brandon to his bed and Brandon rubbed off on his thigh, coming in his shorts like a kid. The second time, he held Brandon to the floor by his throat and jerked him off hard and fast, made him beg to come. He thinks a lot about what kind of sub he must be for the other rookies, because he’s a real good dom for Brandon.)

He gives Brandon pause. ‘What?’

‘If you really don’t want me here, then you can tell me to go, Dubi. Just gotta use your safeword.’

Brandon grinds his teeth. He knows, is the thing. It’s always at the back of his mind, whenever something like this happens. He doesn’t want Josh here. But-- he doesn’t want to safeword out. Doesn’t want to be left alone with his memories of that game. How he couldn’t win a fucking faceoff to save his life, how in almost eighteen minutes of ice time he managed one, maybe two shots on goal, both easy saves for the goalie. How his temper frayed and frayed until by the end of the third it was hanging on by a thread, and then it just-- snapped.

‘So, are you gonna tell me?’

Josh is leaning against the open doorframe. Brandon’s had a lot of doms, and the best ones are the ones that know how to make themselves bigger than they are. Josh isn’t a small guy to begin with, but standing in Brandon’s entryway, he looks enormous.

Brandon shoves him. Josh stands firm, tilts his head a little. ‘You wanna fight, huh?’

Brandon bares his teeth, squashes a shiver. Now that Josh has mentioned it, _yeah_. He wants to fight.

He doesn’t think Josh is expecting the first punch, and he takes it off the jaw. When he swings again though, Josh grabs his wrist hard enough that the bones of it creak, and he pulls Brandon in, wrapping an arm around him to trap his free arm against his chest. Brandon headbutts him in the chin. Josh manages to straighten up a little, twists and avoids the worst of it, but he takes it off the hinge of his jaw.

Brandon somehow ends up on his back on the carpet in the hall, Josh landing on him hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Somehow, the front door has been kicked shut, and Josh struggles to pin Brandon’s hands above his head.

Brandon’s split Josh’s lip. It oozes down his chin, thick.

‘Jesus, Dubi,’ he says, finally sitting on his belly to stop him from bucking him off. Brandon kicks out, but it’s ineffective. Josh wipes his bloody lip on the shoulder of his coat, wincing a little.

‘Fuck you,’ Brandon snarls, trying to pull his hands free. ‘Let me _go_.’

‘So you can hit me again?’ Josh’s chest is heaving with the effort of keeping Brandon still. He leans forward to put more weight on Brandon’s wrists, tangles their legs together to stop him from bucking. ‘I don’t think so.’

Brandon bares his teeth, grunts in frustration, and tries throwing his hips from side to side to unseat Josh.

‘I’m not letting you up.’ Josh says. ‘If you wanna fight, then fight, but I’m not letting you go.’

Brandon growls at him. ‘Fuck you,’ he spits.

‘I got you,’ Josh says, letting him struggle. ‘I got you, buddy.’

He holds Brandon down like it’s nothing, lets Brandon fight and rage until he’s breathless, has nothing left.

When he comes back to himself, he’s panting, breathing heavy like he just got off the ice, and he takes a breath, holds it, takes another, and goes limp.

‘Are-- are you done?’ Josh asks. His voice is shaky.

‘I-- I think so.’

When Josh sits up, he lets go of Brandon’s wrists, and he winces, wriggling his fingers. When he looks at them, there are bruised rings right over the joint, where the bone juts out.

Josh waits a handful of heartbeats, to make sure Brandon’s not going to try and jump him again, probably, and then he scrambles off, taking a couple of stumbling steps back. Brandon sits up. His back hurts.

He looks-- shaken, Brandon realises. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I--’ Josh stops. ‘It hasn’t been like that before.’ Another pause. ‘I didn’t know you were going to fight so hard. Or for so long. It was like it wasn’t you for a minute in the middle, I was talking to you but you weren’t saying anything back, just snarling and fighting my grip. You banged your head off the floor pretty hard.’

The back of Brandon’s head hurts. He reaches up to find it tender and sore.

‘Are-- you concussed?’ Josh asks. He’s leaning against Brandon’s front door like his knees are going to buckle if he doesn’t.

‘I don’t-- think so.’

‘Can you-- what should I do?’

Brandon’s bitten his tongue in the struggle. He touches his finger to it and it comes away bright red with blood.

‘I-- you should probably call Cam. You look--’ Brandon trails off. Josh looks terrified of him, a little bit. Brandon feels like shit. He climbs to his feet on shaky legs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘That was-- you shouldn’t have had to deal with that.’

‘It was what you needed,’ Josh says. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and has a short conversation with Cam.

They make it to Brandon’s couch, and his hands are starting to shake, but he gets the thick blanket he uses for aftercare and curls up in Josh’s lap, draping it over them both.

‘You know,’ Brandon says, slowly. ‘My safeword isn’t just for me. Hartsy taught you that, right?’

‘Doms shouldn’t have to safeword,’ Josh mumbles.

‘Cam had to safeword with me once,’ Brandon offers, and Josh blinks, confused.

‘Really?’ Brandon nods. ‘Why?’

‘I scared him,’ he says.

Josh frowns. He’s got an arm hooked around Brandon’s waist, and a warm hand has snuck underneath his shirt. ‘How?’

‘Kind of like how I scared you tonight. It was early last season. He was a healthy scratch. We lost our seventh in a row. I got back to the hotel and I was furious. He tried to put me down, and I wouldn’t go. We had a screaming match that I’m surprised the whole hotel didn’t hear, and-- he slapped me. Right across the face.’ Brandon pauses, thinking about the look on Cam’s face as the crack of his hand was ringing in Brandon’s ear. ‘I think it hurt him more than it hurt me, but. All the colour drained out of his face, and he safeworded. Ran out of the room like it was on fire, and I just kind of-- stood there, in the middle of the room, trying to figure out what just happened.’ There’s a phantom sting in Brandon’s cheek. ‘That was the first time he’d ever hit me in the face.’

‘He just left you there?’

‘Nick came by later. Couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes. He said Cam was gonna stay in his room, and he’d stay with me. Asked if I needed to be put down, but--’

Brandon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. _Be there in 10_ , Cam says.

Brandon feels Josh deflate with relief when he sees the text. He hadn’t realised quite how tightly he was holding on to being Brandon’s dom until another dom was in the room.

‘Thank you,’ Brandon says, tucks his head under Josh’s chin, puts a hand over his ribs, so he can feel his heart beating steadily.

**-**

**February 4th, NJD 5, CBJ 1**

Brandon gets kicked out of the game not even halfway through the third period, and he spends the next ten minutes pacing.

He’s most of the way out of his gear when he hears the horn for the end of the game, and the team trails in. Every single one of them ignores him, except for Nick, who makes a beeline for him, grabs him by the collar of his underarmor and yanks him to his feet.

‘Training room. Go. Strip,’ he says. Brandon thinks about arguing, but Nick’s giving him a look that makes him want to do what he’s told, for his own good.

There’s a table in the training room made out of cold metal, with leather cuffs attached to the top and the legs. Brandon strips out of his under armour and stands in front of it in silence, waits for Nick to take hold of the back of his neck and shove him over it. The metal is icy on his bare stomach, the tops of his thighs, where his dick is caught against the edge of it.

Nick doesn’t talk while he’s buckling Brandon’s wrists, kicking his ankles so his legs are spread, buckling those cuffs too.

‘It was 3-1,’ Nick says, finally, when he’s positioned Brandon how he wants him. He’s standing behind him, not touching him. ‘I don’t know why you thought you had to get tossed out in a game like this. We were still in the game.’

Brandon doesn’t say anything.

‘You can talk,’ Nick says.

‘Lost my temper,’ Brandon says, after a pause. Nick sighs.

‘If you’d been putting up points, then maybe the team would be okay with you pulling shit like this. You think we were happy playing the rest of the game down a man?’

‘No,’ Brandon says, sullen.

‘Then why, Brandon?’

Brandon stays quiet. He knows this isn’t a question Nick wants him to answer.

There’s a small fridge in the corner of the room. Brandon knows from experience that it has cut fruit, gatorade, and a box of different sized toys. For situations just like this one.

Nick isn’t gentle or careful opening him up. He gets two fingers, coated with freezing lube, and he gets a plug. It has thick ridges, and is just as cold as the lube. He makes a sound when the head of it pushes past the ring of muscle, and Nick swats him on the meat of his ass. ‘Shut up,’ he says, so Brandon does.

Nick pushes it in slowly, and Brandon has to fight to relax enough to let him. When the base is snug between his cheeks, he rolls his hips the tiniest bit to see how it moves inside him. He’s starting to get hard, just a little. Enough that his dick is starting to press against the blunt edge of the table.

When Nick hits him again, Brandon’s whole body jerks. The table shifts across the floor with a short screech, and Brandon’s breath catches in his throat.

‘I’m going to shower. Then I have postgame interviews. If you get yourself off, you’re staying here all night.’

Nick turns the light off when he leaves, and Brandon is stuck in the dark, bent over the table.

The training room is just off from the locker room. He can hear the movement of the guys getting changed and showered. One by one, they leave, and Brandon can hear nothing.

He jumps when the door opens, and the plug shifts inside him again, knocking against his prostate, which makes him drag his dick across the edge of the table, hard enough that it _hurts_. The lights come back on, and when he turns his head, he can see Nick unknotting his tie. He hangs it over a hook on the back of the door, followed by his suit jacket. He undoes his cufflinks and drops them into his pocket, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. He doesn’t look at Brandon.

‘One for every penalty minute. You can be as loud as you like,’ Nick says, finally, coming to stand behind him. ‘But count them.’

Brandon doesn’t know where he got the paddle from, but the first hit is right across the back of his thighs, just below the crease of his ass, and he yelps.

‘Count them, Brandon.’

‘One,’ Brandon says. He closes his eyes and tries to brace for the second one.

The second one lands square in the middle of his ass, jolting the plug. ‘Two,’ he gasps. Nick smooths his hand over his ass before three and four in quick succession, on the same cheek. Brandon can feel it burning, and he already knows he’s going to bruise. Five makes tears spring to his eyes, and he makes a choking sound. He’s so hard he’s leaking, can feel it running down the underside of his dick, down the inside of his thigh.

Six lands, and he’s struggling to breathe.

‘What number, Brandon?’ Nick asks, and then has to repeat himself. ‘What _number_?’

‘Six,’ Brandon manages, and before he’s even finished speaking, seven lands directly over the top.

By the time he gets to nine, he has to speak between sobs.

Ten is the easiest, he thinks, manages to get the word out and then turns his face away, mashing it into the table to try and get himself together. Nick gives him a minute to cry, and then he’s unbuckling him. Brandon’s legs don’t give out when he pulls him upright, but it’s close.

‘Shower,’ Nick says. ‘Get dressed. Leave the plug in. You’re coming back to my place tonight.’

Brandon spends his shower half-leaning against the wall. He feels a little less shaky when he’s towelling off and getting dressed. Nick sits in his stall watching him. When Brandon’s finished, he stands up and leaves without a word. Brandon follows.

-

Nick hits a speed bump a little faster than he normally would, driving home. Brandon yelps and digs the heel of his hand into his erection. Nick doesn’t even look at him before he’s saying, ‘Hands to yourself.’

Brandon whines.

‘Do you think this is supposed to be a reward?’ Nick asks. ‘Do you think you’re going to get to come tonight?’

Brandon’s quiet.

‘Do you think you deserve to come?’ Silence. ‘ _Answer me_.’

‘No,’ Brandon admits. ‘I don’t.’

‘That’s the first smart thing you’ve thought all night,’ Nick says, harsh, and hits another speed bump.

-

Brandon knows how things work when he gets back to Nick’s place. He heads straight for the spare room, strips again, and lies on his back. The sheets are cool and soft on his bruised ass. He hooks his hands around his thighs to keep them spread; if he really stretches, he can feel around the base of the plug, where the skin is red-hot.

‘Did I say you can touch?’ Nick asks. He’s holding a cloth drawstring bag and a bottle in one hand.

Brandon whimpers, and moves his hand back to his thigh.

‘You’re gonna be bruised up tomorrow,’ Nick says, putting the bag and bottle on the bed, and reaching out to touch one of the sore spots with a cold hand. Brandon flinches away. ‘Hands and knees,’ he says, and Brandon looks at him, confused.

‘But--’

‘I said hands and knees, Dubinsky.’

Brandon does what he’s told.

Nick plays with the plug a little, half pulling it out and then pushing it back in. Brandon shouts when he yanks it out completely without ceremony, and he can feel his ass clenching on nothing.

‘Look at that,’ Nick says, hooking a couple of fingers in. ‘So fucking loose, Brandon. You fucking get off on this shit, don’t you? I could fuck you all night and not let you come and you’d fucking thank me in the morning, wouldn’t you?’

Brandon whimpers, dropping to his elbows, pushing his ass into the air. Nick fucks him lazily with two fingers for a long minute, rubbing hard against his prostate.

‘I bought some new stuff last month,’ Nick says. ‘After the Ottawa game. I figured I was going to need it, and looks like I was right.’

When the lube hits Brandon’s rim, he arches his back, writhing a little. It feels like someone’s just upended a slushy on his ass.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he says, and his hips jump.

‘Freezable lube,’ Nick says. He starts rubbing it in, sliding his fingers in and out of Brandon easily. It’s just as cold inside. Brandon shudders, but pushes back into it. ‘That’s what I thought,’ Nick says.

The cold is unpleasant, but it warms up quickly, even as it trickles down over his perineum to his balls, down his dick.

Nick removes his fingers. Brandon hears the click of the bottletop again.

He’s intimately familiar with the head of the dildo pushing into him. It’s glass, flared at the top, bumpy all the way down, and if Nick flicks a switch, there’s a gentle vibrator in the head of it, strong enough to drive him crazy, not strong enough to help him do anything about his erection. It’s not the biggest thing Nick fucks him with, but it’s the most frustrating. Nick keeps it in the fridge, hidden in the vegetable crisper.

'Is that how you’re going to play from now on?' Nick asks. 'Should we just start to expect more penalty minutes than points on a regular basis?'

'No,' Brandon says, fisting and unfisting his hands. Nick’s fucking him with just the head, barely even that. He has maybe two inches of it inside him, and Nick is just playing with it as it tugs at his rim. Brandon wants to cry.

'Then what, Brandon?'

'I’ll be better,' he says, and gets another inch or so. 'I’ll keep my temper, I won’t--' he breaks off, as Nick forces it deeper, past the biggest ridge so far.

'No more penalties,' he says, breathy. He sounds needy, like he should be begging. Brandon’s not above begging, if he thinks it’ll get him what he wants.

'Nick, please--' he starts, and Nick hits him again, right over a bruise.

'No more misconducts,' he says. 'No more leaving the team down a man for _stupid_ shit.' He pauses. 'The team needs you, Dubi. We can’t do what we’ve been doing without you.' He rubs the palm of his hand over the hot skin of Brandon’s ass, soothing. 'I’m not doing this because you got kicked out. I’m doing this because I know you can do better.' He sounds-- not mad, not disappointed, but like he really, truly believes in Brandon’s ability to be better.

'I can,' Brandon manages, and then it’s a little like a dam breaking. 'I’m sorry,' he chokes out, and buries his face in the sheets, shoulders shaking.

'I know you’re frustrated that you’re not scoring,' Nick says. 'Trust me, Dub, I get it. You think I didn’t get frustrated last season? Like I was failing the team?'

It honestly hadn’t occurred to Brandon.

'How many game misconducts did I get last season?' Nick asks him, quietly.

'I don’t-- I don’t know,' he hiccups.

'Zero,' he says. 'Did I lose my temper? Sure. But not on the ice. I wasn’t a very good captain last year. But I tried, and that meant keeping my shit together where the team could see.'

He pushes at Brandon until he’s lying on his back, Nick kneeling in the vee of his legs. The dildo jostles inside him, and his dick twitches. Nick puts a hand on Brandon’s chest, over his heart. 'They gave you the A for a reason, Dub. You’re a good leader.'

Brandon blinks hard at the ceiling. He can feel the tears trickling over his temples. His hands are fisted in the sheets by his side.

Nick pushes the last of the dildo in. It feels impossibly big, Brandon thinks, clenching around it. If he shifts, he can feel it low in his gut. It’s so _cold_ , seems to be taking forever to warm up.

'You’re gonna stay here for thirty minutes,' Nick says, climbing off the bed. 'You’re not going to touch yourself, or come. Do you want me to tie your hands, so you’re not tempted?'

Brandon thinks about it. Nick is patient, clearing up the mess around him, retrieving the discarded plug from the folds of the comforter. Brandon thinks about the switch in the base of the dildo. 'Please,' he says, unhooking his fingers from the sheets and holding them above his head, wrists crossed.

Nick doesn’t like rope. He doesn’t like the marks it leaves, and Brandon still has the faintest yellowing on his wrists where Josh held him down.

Nick has soft, wide scarves that he folds into thick strips, and he wraps one around and around Brandon’s wrists, and tucks the excess under the folds. He ties him to the headboard with a second scarf, and lets Brandon pull at it to make sure it won’t cut off circulation, and that it doesn’t dig in anywhere. Nick knows how important hands are to a hockey player, won’t risk damaging him there.

Another scarf is wrapped over his eyes. Nick pauses before tying the knot, gives Brandon a second to shake his head free if he doesn’t want it.

Sometimes he gets noise cancelling headphones too. Nick likes to leave him with nothing to distract him from what’s happening.

'You wanna tell me how you’re doing?' Nick asks.

'M’okay,' Brandon mumbles. He remembers hearing somewhere that to calm down a panicked bird, all you have to do is cover its head with something. The scarf over his eyes is making him feel kind of floaty. He can feel the ache in his ass and residual game soreness-- he never got a chance to stretch after being tossed-- but it feels-- lesser.

'You remember your safeword?' Nick asks. He’s pushing Brandon’s hair off his forehead, smoothing it back. Brandon arches into the touch, and then it’s taken away.

Brandon whimpers a little, trying to reach for it.

'Safeword, B,' Nick reminds him.

'Crosby,' Brandon mumbles.

'Good boy,' Nick says. 'I’m gonna start the timer now. It’s right next to the bed, so you’ll hear it go off. I’m gonna be in the other room, okay?'

'Mkay,' Brandon mumbles, shifts on the bed a little. There’s a jolt that reminds him of the dildo and he makes a small sound.

Nick climbs off the bed. Brandon can hear him walking around the room, and he stops at the foot of the bed. There’s a shift of weight as he puts a knee on the edge, nudges Brandon’s legs apart. The click of the switch is loud in the silence.

The vibrator is agonising. Brandon moans, and arches off the bed, trying his best to plant his feet on slippery sheets.

'Thirty minutes,' Nick says, and then Brandon hears the door shut.

It feels like forever. Brandon was told not to come. He wasn’t told to be quiet, though, and he’s not, writhing on the bed. The headboard is banging against the wall with his struggles. In the other room, he can hear Nick on the phone, faint.

'Yeah… yeah, he’s fine… yeah, that’s him yelling… come over in a half hour or so… yeah… I don’t know. I hope so… I’ll see you soon, buddy.'

Brandon has his feet planted so he can try and fuck his hips up. It’s not dignified, but he needs _something_. One of his feet slips, and he lands on his ass, hard, making the dildo fully shift inside him. It _hurts_ , and he shouts in pain, tossing his head.

Nick is there in a second, flicking the switch. 'You okay, Brandon? You hurting?’

Brandon tries to speak and realises he’s struggling to breathe. He pants for a long moment. 'Just-- a shock,' he manages. 'Foot slipped. Knocked dildo. Wasn’t expecting it.'

'Okay,' Nick says, soothing. 'Are you okay to finish up? You’re so close, B, just a couple more minutes then you’re done.'

Brandon nods, furiously. 'I can do it,' he insists. 'I can.'

'Okay,' Nick says. 'I’m gonna wait here, okay. Finish up with you.'

Brandon nods again.

Nick doesn’t flick the switch again. He does spend the next three minutes fucking Brandon with the dildo, torturously slow, making him count the thrusts.

Nick’s at twenty one when the alarm goes off, making Brandon jump.

He leaves it half in Brandon while he turns the alarm off, and then he’s back, easing it out before sliding his hands around Brandon’s head to untie the blindfold. The lights are dimmed when Brandon opens his eyes, and he’s grateful, blinking up at Nick through watery eyes.

'Hi,' Nick says, soft. 'You’re all done, B.'

He leans down to kiss him gently, slowly. 'I’m proud of you,' he says. 'That was hard.'

Brandon tries to speak, but can’t without choking. Nick unties his hands and eases him into a sitting position, slips a bottle of Gatorade between his lips to help him drink.

He’s covered in sweat, feels like he’s just played three games one after the other. His arms ache, and Nick sits behind him to ease the tension out of his shoulders with his thumbs. This is Brandon’s favourite part.

The doorbell goes, making Brandon spill his drink. 'I’ll be right back,' Nick promises.

Brandon’s eyes slide closed as soon as Nick’s gone.

'You gotta stop getting yourself in trouble like this, babe,' Cam says, from the doorway.

'I don’t mean to,' Brandon mumbles, giving Cam a wonky smile.

Cam sighs. In the gloom, Brandon can just about see the smile in the corners of his mouth.

'He done being punished?' Cam asks over his shoulder.

'Yep,' Nick says. 'Do with him what you will. I’ll give you guys some privacy.'

Cam slides into Brandon’s lap, mindful of his dick, still hard and leaking. 'Were you good for Nick?' he asks, kissing him. He has his knees planted either side of Brandon’s hips, lifting up so he’s not touching him.

Brandon nods. 'Really good,' he says.

'Good boy,' Cam says, eases a hand down to Brandon’s cock. 'You want me to help you?'

Brandon nods. He’s so hard that it almost hurts when Cam starts touching him. Tears spring to his eyes, and he screws them shut.

Cam shushes him, coaxes his orgasm out of him easily, and then lets him sob with relief.

He helps him to the shower, washes the come and sweat and lube off, lathers up his hair for him, and when they get back to the room, Nick’s stripped the bed and put fresh sheets on, and left a box of goldfish crackers and a bowl of cut fruit, along with another yellow Gatorade.

'Sweet, goldfish,' Cam says, dropping his towel and sliding between the sheets, grabbing for them with a smile.

'I think those are supposed to be for me,' Brandon says, following suit. Cam shrugs and rips into the box.

'You don’t love them like I do,' he says, but he manhandles Brandon until he’s lying between Cam’s legs, and he feeds him goldfish one at a time, then fruit and most of the Gatorade, until Brandon’s listing against him, eyes sliding shut.

'Nick says you did so good,' he whispers, when they’re curled up together on their sides. 'He said I should be proud of you.'

'Are you?' Brandon asks.

'Every day,' Cam promises, kisses the hinge of his jaw.

'Even when I do dumb stuff like today?'

'Even then,' Cam says. 'I wouldn’t love you as much if you were well behaved all the time.'

'Okay,' Brandon agrees, and he feels Cam shaking with laughter. He drifts off to Cam murmuring in his ear, has no idea what he’s even saying, content with knowing that Cam’s there.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter at @folignos! Come join me in discussing sub Dubi every day of my life.


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